


Blame It On The Rain

by GloriaVictoria



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 08:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20094241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: A stormy night sends Caleb Widogast's imagination running away from him, but Caduceus is there to pull him back in.





	Blame It On The Rain

For the past three days, rain had impeded the Mighty Nein’s travel, pouring down relentlessly until finally, the group had decided to simply wait the storm out before leaving town. They’d made the right choice, it seemed, for once they’d made their choice the downpour had grown quite torrential, flooding the dirt and cobblestone roads and forcing all but the most essential workers indoors. Caleb had honestly not minded the break, as he had plenty of work to do – spells to learn, research to conduct, scrolls to transcribe. His friends, on the other hand, suffered. It had taken less than an afternoon for Jester and Beau to complain _loudly_ that they had nothing to occupy themselves with. Eventually the former had decided to set up traps for the innkeeper, while the latter had sprinted across the street to the bar. This rain, however, had proven more distracting that he’d hoped. In the time that they’d stayed here, he’d barely managed to put a dent in the work he’d planned for himself.

Once, Caleb Widogast had enjoyed the rain. He recalled that it had rained quite often in Blumenthal, especially in the summer months, and he remembered sneaking out of the house against his mother’s wishes to play in it. Sometimes he’d go out with Astrid and Eodwulf, usually pretending to be travelers or warriors on a grave quest through the elements, but most often he’d wander out alone. Beneath the roiling clouds, he would stand and let himself soak to the skin, his hair curling around his ears and against his forehead – at least until Mother called him angrily back inside. No doubt part of the appeal laid in the thrill of disobedience, but when he stood beneath the thunderheads, he felt powerful. He imagined that he could sense the energies thrashing about in the air, that if he focused hard enough, he could reach up and pull the lightning out of the clouds with his fingers. Of course, once his magical abilities emerged when he was nine, things made more sense. Maybe one day, he _would_ bend storms to his will.

It had rained the day he burned his parents alive. He remembered how the ground had sank beneath their feet as they had made their way to his home, blood still thrumming from the excitement that had come before: the pitiful whimpers of Eodwulf’s mother as he had wrapped his hands around her neck, the final gasps of Astrid’s family as they died face-first in their _sauerbraten. _By the time Caleb’s turn had come, the soggy earth fought them tooth and nail as they struggled to push the wagon through the mud and lean it against his childhood home. He’d just known the hay wouldn’t catch the flame, worried that the smoke would tip the village off to their presence... but Ikithon had insisted. He’d not been wrong, and Caleb had the sneaking suspicion that rain or shine, the flames would have consumed his parents all the same.

Instead of working, he spent the better part of the day curled up in his bed, staring out the window, or asleep. Occasionally, Jester or Nott, or even a half-sober Beauregard would knock on his door, try to get him to emerge. He always refused, sometimes giving an excuse, sometimes saying nothing at all. After a while, to his great relief, they stopped trying. After all, he would still come down for meals, he still made conversation, and truthfully he wasn’t behaving much differently than normal. They’d learned better than to pick and nag at him for too long.

Eventually, and much to Caleb’s chagrin, even the silence and solitude irritates him. The white-noise of the pelting rain rubs against his mind like sandpaper, growing louder as if to mock him. He reaches over his desk, opens the window, and in a moment of absolute desperation crawls out into the downpour. Luckily, they’d secured first-floor rooms, and after only a moment Caleb finds himself in a narrow alley. Another loud peal of thunder, and the sky lights up in frantic flashes. He closes his eyes and staggers out onto the street, his breathing heavy and visible in the chill air. He doesn’t know where to go, and at the moment, he doesn’t care. Forcing himself into the source of his discomfort, he finds himself strangely soothed, and he is nine years old again. He moves through the slushy mud as easily as he’d moved through the field behind his home, and he thinks for a moment he can hear the calling of mourning doves singing to the setting sun... until he falls to the ground, face-first into a deep puddle.

He snaps out of his reverie, shivering and crawling out of the freezing water and into a patch of long grass growing on the edge of the road. He feels unbidden tears burning trails down his cheeks, and he wonders for a moment how he manages to get himself into these situations. Where did he think he was going, alone in a town where nobody knew him, where it seemed everything might wash downstream at any moment? He needs to contact Nott, she can help him. Reaching into his coat pocket, he fumbles for his scrap of wire and finds it missing, replaced by a rather sizeable hole in his pocket.

_“Schiesse!”_ He whispers angrily to himself through chattering teeth. As Caleb struggles to his feet, the rain turns to sleet, further weighing down his body with waterlogged leather and cloth. His boots squeak and slosh with each clumsy step as he tries to right himself, pushing the images of his past back into the dark closet where he keeps them and forcing his eyes forward. He needed to get back, and quick. He could feel the rain picking up, beating against his back as thunder crashed overhead.

As Caleb continues to drag himself through the muck and mire, he can smell smoke. Cinders sting at his eyes and slither into his throat, burning the soft tissue away from the inside. _No, no, no. Pull it together, you fucking twit!_ The corners of his eyes burn with tears, blinding him to the rather tall figure he finds himself slamming into. “Agh, sorry, sorry_..._” As he backs away, he slips, falling backwards into a convenient patch of mildewed straw.  
  
"Mr. Caleb?" The soft, resonant voice of Caduceus Clay snaps him back to reality, and he wipes the ice and tears away from his cheeks. "You doing alright, friend?"  
  
"Ah... Um, no." Caleb murmurs, too cold and dazed to pretend otherwise.   
  
"Yeah. Yeah, that hay doesn't look all that comfortable. You want me to help you up?" Caduceus reaches down and offers his hand, his damp pink locks tumbling over one shoulder.  
  
"What are you doing out here?" He asks as he takes Caduceus' hand.   
  
"I could ask you the same thing. You missed dinner." With a quick heave, Caduceus lifts Caleb to his feet. "We were kinda worried about you, friend."   
  
"No need for that, I was just on my way back. Looking for, um..." Caleb lets his eyes wander over Caduceus, unarmored and unprotected from the elements. His broad shoulders slump as he kneels down to better meet Caleb's gaze. "How long have you--"   
  
"Let's talk inside." Caduceus interrupts as yet another bolt of lightning, this one closer than any before, shoots out of the sky. "Getting a little dicey out here. I'm glad it didn't take me long to find you. Never told me what you were doing out here, by the way." Caleb doesn't immediately respond, instead allowing Caduceus to lead him into the inn, up the stairs past the curious guests imbibing at the bar, and into his room where the window still sat wide open.   
  
"Dammit..." Water had pooled and splashed all over his desk, ruining the notes he'd made earlier in the day.   
  
"Oh, that's really a shame. I'm sorry. How about you get out of those wet clothes and I'll clean this up?" Caleb nods numbly, grabbing his personal effects and moving to the corner of the room. Caduceus keeps his back turned, closing the window before carefully picking up each sheet of Caleb's expensive, ruined paper between his fingertips. He lets his coat fall to the floor and breathes a sigh of relief as it lands with a loud _thud_, literally lifting a weight from his shoulders. Hesitantly, he removes his books and holsters, his tunic, his gloves and boots, leaving only his very wet trousers. "Could take those off too."  
  
"I don't think so." Caleb snaps, eliciting a soft chuckle from his companion as his cheeks flush a deep red.   
  
"Suit yourself, though I'd imagine it'll be hard to dry off that way." Without another word, Caduceus pulls the worn quilt from Caleb's bed and shakes it out, sending a plume of cat hair and dander into the air. Once finished, he sets it down in front of the small hearth in the room. "Here. Sit down and get warm. I'll make some tea."   
  
"You don't -- you don't need to do that."   
  
"Pretty sure you said that last time." Caduceus merely smiles and heads out the door, leaving Caleb alone, hair still dripping and skin speckled with goosebumps. He listens to Caduceus open his own door across the hall, humming some sort of unrecognizable tune under his breath. He hears Fjord too, his gruff voice muted and filled with something between morbid curiosity and genuine concern.

“Hey, uh... he okay in there? He ain’t dead, is he?”

“Well, he might catch a bad cold, but--“ Caduceus pauses as he responds, as if contemplating his answer. Caleb does not move away from the fire, but leans toward the door to better hear. “He’s going to be just fine.” Caleb snorts incredulously, but in spite of everything, hearing someone say it... No, hearing _Caduceus _say it in that assuring tone of his made him almost believe it.

Outside, the storm begins to calm, though rain still pelts the roof and windowpanes. Lightning no longer burns its pathways through the sky, thunder no longer rings in Caleb’s ears. He runs his hands across the skin of his arms, now growing accustomed to the warmth of the fire. He almost feels comfortable, comfortable like he’d felt nestled in Papa’s chair, bundled in a down quilt, drinking cocoa and falling asleep to the sound of rain. As he allows this pleasant memory to pass through him, a question rose to his mind: _how could Caduceus do this to him?_ Or perhaps, more pertinently, _why?_

“Alright, Mr. Caleb. Let me get this on the fire for you. This ought to warm you right up.” Caduceus stepped back into the room, himself changed into different clothing: more or less the same, save for having lost the armor and replaced it with a thick, mossy shawl. Without warning, Caleb blurts out the question, too startled by Caduceus’ reappearance to hold it back. 

“Why are you doing this for me?” Caduceus pauses over the fire, his handful of tea hovering over his clay pot. Before he replies, he drops the leaves in and mixes them in, then turns to face Caleb. His pale, purple eyes glitter just as they’d done before, when they’d last shared a cup of tea around a fire. Caleb notes, for no real reason, that this had become something of a trend.

“Why?” Caduceus kneels beside Caleb, tilting his head ever-so-slightly to maintain eye contact. “Because you—well, it’s the right thing to do. You know? That’s what friends do. They take care of each other.”

“Okay, but none of our friends—“

“None of your friends know how to do this, and that’s okay. They’ve got their own ways of showing you love.” Caduceus reaches forward and, with the gentlest of touches, pushes Caleb’s damp hair out of his face. “This is mine.” In spite of himself, Caleb can feel his cheeks growing hot, especially when Caduceus’ hand lingers for just a moment at his temple, his long fingers brushing the bristly curve of his jaw. 

“Love, huh?” 

“Yep.” Caduceus smiles, and Caleb feels something twist in his stomach. “You don’t like using that word, I’ve noticed.” 

“_Ja,_ well... it’s not served me all that well in the past.” Caleb mutters, looking down at his hands in his lap. He notices for the first time he’s picked a rather nasty hangnail, and blood has pooled in the crease of his nailbed. Wordlessly, Caduceus takes his hand and holds it, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Do you love your friends?” Caleb cannot answer; the breath in his lungs suddenly dissipates and all he can manage is a weak, stuttering _uh—uh—_ “You’re allowed to. You’re allowed to love them. And... you know what? That’s how you start loving yourself.”

“You’re talking a very big game, Clay. You don’t know—“

“Yeah. I don’t, not really.” He says, nonchalant and matter-of-fact, as if none of that really matters. Caleb actually wonders if he might be right. “Here.” Caduceus removes the strange shawl around his broad shoulders and places it around Caleb. It’s incredibly warm, and surrounds him with a smell of roses and wet leaves. It’s not unpleasant; rather, it lulls him into a sleepy haze and, without thinking, he leans his head on Caduceus’ chest.

“I’m tired.” He whispers, and Caduceus places a hand on the back of Caleb’s head, petting his gently curling hair. 

“I know.” He replies, and though Caleb can hear the pot overflowing on the fire, Caduceus does not move away to tend it. “I know.” 

Somewhere along the line, Caleb must have fallen asleep, and when he wakes he finds himself in his bed, still swathed in Caduceus' oversized shawl. He can no longer hear the sounds of rain, instead he catches snippets of conversation outside, the songs of robins. The sun casts a beam of light on his face through the crack in the curtain, and beside him on the bedside table, a pot of tea steams next to an empty cup. 


End file.
